


view from haarlem

by la_victorienne



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-15
Updated: 2008-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: ianto doesn't really feel the need to return, but who argues with jack harkness and expects to win?





	

In the seventeenth century, in the Netherlands, while the Baroque painters of Italy were focusing on anything from the Bible they could get their hands on and just after Caravaggio made anachronisms sort-of famous, there was a painter named Jacob van Ruisdael who painted landscapes of mostly sky. He lived in a place called Haarlem and though Ianto had never been there, every time he saw a painting by Ruisdael he thought of Wales, though he couldn’t always place why.

But now, here, back in the Beacons for the first time in months, it’s more comfort to focus on a far-off town filled with windmills and tulips than to remember what happened here, and he knows why Ruisdael’s work always calms him when he sees it. Because nothing like what happened here could happen there, and if Haarlem is anything like the Beacons than what happened here will never happen again. Ianto hopes. And prays. And still he prefers thinking about art to thinking about where he is, and why Jack has brought him here. Why Jack has brought him exactly here, to this place, aware of exactly what happened and probably also well aware of what it is going to do to Ianto when he stops thinking about the Dutch Baroque, Ruisdael, and the subsequent threads of thought involving Jan Steen, Johannes Vermeer, and that artsy film with Colin Firth in that Lisa made him see with her.

Which, sod it all, makes him think of that night in the basement, and then what happened after Ianto came back to work, and now he’s back on the cleaver and the baseball bat and Ianto swallows hard and closes his eyes.

“All right, there?” Jack asks, and his voice is low enough to be deemed growly but not quite suggestive, just concerned, and Ianto nods, bumping his head against the cool glass of the window. “I know this is hard,” Jack says helpfully, and Ianto makes a noncommittal noise. “I wouldn’t bring you here if it weren’t good for you,” he continues, but Ianto holds up a hand, warding off the words, trembling slightly, and Jack falls silent, for once not closing the one-sided conversation with a joke or a laugh.

It’s true; Jack’s right, as Jack always is; Ianto is thoroughly aware of how “good” this trip will be for him. Jack has plans for camping and strip poker (or something equally as naked and ridiculous) and no alarms, not even a mobile turned on in case the world ends while they’re gone, because Martha and Gwen and Mickey are more than capable of handling anything the Rift throws at them, and in a pinch there’s always John Hart, drifting somewhere on Earth, debauching everyone in sight.

Ianto tries to rid his head of that image, but fails miserably. It’s just as well; at least he’s not thinking about cannibals again.

Except he is. Bugger it.

It’s just – often Ianto feels like the bad things follow him, like he’s the reason for all of this death and destruction. Torchwood One. Lisa. Cannibals. There are more, but it makes him ill to recount them. It’s a concept he’s considered for quite a long time, quite a long time indeed, though he’s never spoken it out loud for fear Jack would make him see another therapist or quite possibly fuck him mercilessly until he pretended to believe otherwise. After all, no-one but Jack is allowed to have a martyr complex.

Now. That was unkind. Ianto takes it back in his head and almost apologizes out loud. Jack has worked very hard to effect this vacation for the both of them, and he should just sit back and enjoy it, enjoy the beauty of the vast sky and rolling hills, enjoy his precious Wales as best as he can. Later, after strip poker and a bright campfire, Jack will kiss him until he thrashes in the tent and whisper a litany of protection against his skin, replacing memories of dangerously grinning psychopaths with memories of a dangerously grinning Jack, and Ianto should be grateful.

Because Jack will keep him safe.

Jack will always keep him safe.

It’s with the recognition of this unalienable truth that Ianto straightens up in the passenger seat and smoothes his hands over his thighs, almost prepared to enjoy his weekend. Jack’s hand is resting on the center console, relaxed, fingers curled, and Ianto spends almost a minute just watching it before resolutely curling his own hand on top of Jack’s and squeezing. Jack half-smiles and glances in Ianto’s direction, pleased to see that Ianto is neither sweating nor the colour of the medical bay tiles any longer, and squeezes back before pressing harder on the gas pedal. There are tents to be set up, a campfire to be lit, and clothes to be taken off, and those things may not necessarily happen in that order, if the look on Ianto’s face is any indication.

And the next time they come to the Beacons, Ianto is going to be just fine.  



End file.
